Читать книгу Almost A Honeymoon - Susan Crosby, Susan Crosby - Страница 7

Her gaze wandered over him, dispassionately at first, then with interest. He saw the change as it unfolded, was unwillingly flattered by it, but shoved it aside. Resolutely, he unbuttoned his jeans, expecting her to run off. She didn’t budge. Her steady observation began to burn him, a core of heat that pooled low and fiery and spread through his limbs. She swallowed; he battled a desert-dry mouth.

He hooked his thumbs in the waist of his jeans and inched them down. “Sorry, I don’t have the finesse of an exotic dancer—”

Her eyes widened, as if finally aware of what she was seeing. He shoved the jeans down and off. The black cotton briefs covered the essentials, although not for much longer if she didn’t avert her eyes soon.

“Seen enough?” he queried.

She flashed a wicked smile and spun away, tossing her final words over her shoulder. “Great socks, Warner.”

Rye glanced down at his feet as the door clicked shut. Goofy stared up at him, his sister’s last birthday gift to him. Grinning, he pulled them off and slid into the sweatpants and T-shirt. He heard the sound of the bathtub being filled, then nothing.

* * *

Paige rested her wineglass on the edge of the tub and eased into the bubble-layered heat. Instantly soothed, she sighed. Physically exhausted but mentally wide-awake, she sipped her wine and faced the reality of her predicament, which seemed far more serious than she had thought at first. Rye’s presence should have been indication enough. He was never called in for light security work. He charged exorbitant fees and earned them; there was no man her father admired more. Long before she’d had contact with him, she’d heard tales of his exploits, tales so vivid he’d seemed like a mythical figure out of an action movie, tales, she’d suspected previously, rather like those of a fisherman describing the one that got away, a ten-inch fish taking on sharklike dimensions in the reenactment.

Rye Warner was no ten-inch fish. He was muscle head to toe and unafraid to show himself off. She hated brawny men, had always believed they were among the most egotistical people on earth. Who wouldn’t be when they spent hours every day preening in front of a mirror, admiring their own bodies? No, thanks. She’d take a thoughtful, sensitive man any day.

Right, Paige. Like Joey Falcon? She dropped her head back against the rim of the tub. He’d been romantic and charming, complimenting her constantly, always bringing her gifts, holding doors open, pulling out chairs—where had that gotten her? Of course, Rye sat on the other end of the scale. He probably didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, was the kind of man who wouldn’t slow down for a woman walking in high heels—the kind of man to flex his substantial muscles at the slightest twinkle in a woman’s eye.

Well, he wouldn’t find her a panting, drooling, stammering admirer. He could take his overdone pectorals and deltoids, and his bulked-up biceps and triceps, cover his rock hard buns and his...masculinity with a skimpy nylon bathing suit, oil up his rippling body and—

The image suddenly didn’t seem so disgusting. Quick, change the picture. Rye posed in front of an audience, his arms curled, one up, one down, his head twisted to one side, women screaming. There! That’s better. Egotistical jerk.

She would have to tread carefully with him. He pushed her buttons too easily, had done so from the first phone conversation she’d ever had with him, when she’d called to tell him he had to submit a detailed expense report, not simply an all-inclusive invoice for his expenses. It had been all downhill since, their rousing discussions sizzling across telephone wires. He had managed to do what no one else ever had. He’d made her lose her temper.

Until Warner the Barbarian had come into her life, she hadn’t gotten angry—ever.

Rages were her father’s expertise.

* * *

Snuggling deeper under the comforter, Paige ignored the sound of the shower running. Sharing a hotel room—or any room—with a man was unnerving. Her mind’s eye could picture the oversize man in the large tub, could picture the brass fixture he’d have to duck his head under to rinse shampoo away and the frilly shower curtain pulled around the curved rod overhead, vivid contrast to his utter maleness.

She had awakened half an hour ago, forced herself to complete her morning ritual of yoga and meditation, then had climbed back into bed when she heard Rye open the door from the living room that accessed the bathroom. She had slept ten hours, minus the times she woke after disjointed dreams starring her father, Rye and Joey in which she did a lot of running and hiding while they all searched her out.

The shower water cut off, and a variety of new sounds had her speculating on what he was doing. The silence of toweling off, the tap of metal against porcelain as he shaved, sixty seconds of blow-drying his hair, the rustle of fabric and jangle of a belt buckle as he dressed. She glanced at the bedside clock. Thirteen minutes, beginning to end, and he was done.

When she heard the latch of the door open and close, she began her own hour-long routine, eventually emerging from the room dressed in a royal blue wool skirt and pastel blue silk shell.

“Good morning,” she said as she entered the living room, determined to get off on the right foot with him today. He was seated on the sofa, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, a pen in the other. A yellow legal pad contained a list of numbered items that she couldn’t read upside down.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Paige crossed her arms over her chest and bit back a stinging response. “Did I ask?”

“You’re dressed up.”

“Pardon me. If I’d known I was going to be in need of them, I would have packed my prison blues. I was under the mistaken impression that I was here to attend business meetings.” She cocked her head at him. “Did you get up on the wrong side of the sofa?”

He slouched against the cushions and blew out a long breath. “Sorry. I had trouble sleeping. It’s been a grueling couple of weeks.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Coffee’s hot. Lloyd also brought pastries and fruit.”

After Paige served herself, she took a seat in a chair opposite him to use the same low table. “I want to talk to my father.”

“Any time. I have to route the call through another number.”

“How do I transmit data from my computer to the office?”

“You can’t.”

“But—”

“Think of this as a vacation, Harry.”

“And I’m supposed to fill my time watching you work? How exciting.” She bit into an almond-sprinkled bear claw and closed her eyes in appreciation as she savored the richness. She caught him staring at her, and looked down, expecting crumbs on her blouse or something. “What?”

He dropped his glance to the paper in front of him. “Nothing.”

She brushed the corners of her mouth, found no trace of food, then shrugged off his odd gaze. “Can’t we compromise in some way? I can’t just sit all day watching television. I’ll go nuts.”

“Do you have a printer?”

“No. I transmit by modem.”

“If I arrange for a printer, you could run things off, and I could have Lloyd fax them to your office, through another source, of course.”

“That’s fine for sending. What about receiving?”

“If you can figure something out, I’ll arrange it.”

His eyes focused on her mouth again, disconcerting her, making it difficult to swallow. She couldn’t get a handle on him this morning. He was distracted and intensely focused at the same time.

“Was the bed comfortable?” he asked as he wrote something else on the paper.

Her mouth curved teasingly. “Heavenly. It’s so big. I had plenty of room to stretch out and—”

He lifted his head. “This is the honeymoon cottage.”

“There was certainly room for two.”

He rooted her to her seat with his gaze. “I don’t suppose you’d consider trading beds? You’d fit on the couch a lot better than I do.”

“At your daily rate, you can manage a little discomfort, Warner. So, does security loosen enough to allow for maid service, or should I make my bed?”

“Management has been asked not to disturb us.”

“We can’t go out at all? Not even to eat?”

“Lloyd will keep us fed. Anything you want, just ask.”

“When does he sleep if he’s catering to us plus being a night watchman?”

Rye picked up the telephone receiver and began punching numbers. “He won’t be around every night. Just last night, because I was so tired.”

“Meaning, we pay for an extra man because you came to this job tired. No wonder your bills are so outrageous.”

“It’s all relative, Harry. What value do you put on your life?”

Paige opened and closed her mouth. He’d stumped her with logic, leaving her no argument. She drummed her fingers on the upholstered arms of the chair as she watched him punch in another series of numbers, then sit back, the slightest smile on his lips. His gaze dropped to her legs as she crossed one over the other, and she felt a tremor of awareness at the unspoken flattery in his eyes, hardly able to comprehend that such a little action could spur Warner the Barbarian’s interest.

“Warner here,” he said into the telephone before tipping the mouthpiece and saying to Paige, “Do you ever wear miniskirts, or is your standard the middle-of-the-knee look you’ve got on?”

She watched him catalog her body, zone by zone, forcing her to analyze her response to his blatant appraisal. Her nipples drew instantly into hard buds against sheltering lace that became suddenly abrasive, almost painfully so. Could he see her reaction? If she crossed her arms over her chest, would he smirk with self-satisfaction?

The longer he stared, the more she ached—and the more uncomfortable she became. She had to know what he could see.

She leaned forward to pick up her coffee cup and sent a quick glance down herself. Damn. There was no way his eagle eyes could have missed that.

“I’ve been known to expose my knees,” she forced herself to say into the heavy silence. “But since I work mostly with men, I have to be careful of the image I present.”

“It’s hard to imagine you letting down—” He jerked the receiver up again. “Patrick... No problems... Ask her yourself... All right, got it... Here, I’ll put her on.” He passed the phone to Paige.

“You all right, kid?” Patrick asked, after she said hello.

Paige welcomed the chance to divert her train of thought. “I’m furious with you.”

“What do you think of Warner? Nice touch, huh?”

She watched Rye add another line to his growing list. He’s younger than I expected, she thought. “As prison guards go, he rates a ten.” She returned a placid stare to Rye’s raised brows and a one-sided quirk of his mouth.

“He knows what he’s doing. You can trust him.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to, won’t I? Why didn’t you tell me about Joey? I’m not a child.”

“But you’re still my baby. You took care of me for a long time, honey. I’m just returning the favor.”

Paige slumped a little. “We took care of each other, Dad. We grew up together, but we’re both grown up now. I can handle the truth. Do you really believe I’m in that much danger?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you? What are you doing to protect yourself?”

“Security’s solid, honey. Don’t worry about me. Did Rye tell you not to call home?”

“Oh, yes. I got my orders.” She unconsciously watched Rye as he moved to pour himself another cup of coffee. Comparing the width of his shoulders to the slenderness of his hips made her stomach flip-flop. She looked away, willing herself to remember his ego. “Are you sure I can’t drum up some business while I’m here?”

“Rye says you need to lay low. He’s the boss.”

“What’s happening with Collins-Abrahamson?”

“The deal’s on hold until you get back.”

“Promise?”

“Have I ever lied to you, kid?”

Paige laughed briefly. “That was a joke, right?”

He sputtered. “I haven’t lied about anything important.”

“How about the other bodyguards you arranged for me?”

“Now, Paige, honey. Those were just little white lies. They weren’t meant to hurt you.”

“Uh-huh. I’m really angry, Dad. Don’t think we won’t discuss this further when I get home.”

“You’ll forgive me.”

“Don’t be so sure. Will I talk to you soon?”

“Every day, kid. Relax, okay? Pretend you’re on vacation.”

“Did you and Warner conspire? That’s exactly what he said. But as you’ll both recall, it was my vacation that started this mess.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“Yeah, well, mine was a doozy.”

“It’ll turn out, kid. Keep the faith.”

She cradled the receiver softly. “This is the worst possible time for me to be away.”

“Why?” Rye finished the sentence he was writing, then looked up.

“We’ve got a big deal cooking, a potential merger. My father tends to take risks with the company he has no business taking. If I’m not there to intervene, I’m afraid of what will happen.”

“Your father built that company on risks.”

“But it’s stable now. A lot of people depend on him for work. He has to be more careful.” She stood and refilled her coffee cup before moving to stand by the mantel to stare at the fire. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll do what he wants anyway and tell me about it later.”

“Don’t you ever get messed up?”

She turned around. He had assumed a casual pose—one ankle crossed over his knee, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, a pencil dangling lightly from his fingers. She didn’t like the way he studied her.

“What do you mean?”

He gestured with a quick hand. “I mean nothing on you wrinkles or clings or droops. Not a strand of hair out of place. Would any dare?”

Rye watched her pat her hair, was interested in the way she touched an item on the mantel and examined the details before inspecting the next curio. His nose twitched at the unnamed scent that trailed her as she moved around the room. He suddenly wished her hair wasn’t so flawless, wanted to brush a loose strand behind her ear. Any excuse to touch her, to feel that little jolt between them that he chose to acknowledge and she probably chose to deny.

“Would you tell me about Falcon?” he asked.

“To what purpose?”

Rye grinned. “You must be dynamite in negotiations. Are you always so circumspect?”

“I can keep my own counsel, if that’s what you mean. I don’t let emotion interfere with the business at hand.”

“Until Falcon,” Rye said pointedly.

“Joey wasn’t business.”

He bowed his head. “Touché.”

Paige lifted her coffee cup then set it back down. “Joey Falcon is terminally cute.”

“Terminally cute.” Rye tried not to choke on the words.

“And doggedly devoted.”

“You liked that?”

“I don’t psychoanalyze myself. I guess I thought it was what I wanted, at least briefly. I don’t know. I don’t really even care anymore. I just want him out of my life for good.”

“That’s a real possibility, depending on who catches up with him first.”

Paige winced. “I don’t want him harmed. I just want him to stop being an albatross around my neck.”

She watched Rye fix a plate of food for himself and shook her head at his offer to get her something. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably.

“I was surprised when I found out your age,” he said at last. “Patrick is forty-six, right? That means he was eighteen when you were born.”

She embraced the sudden change of subject. “My mother was seventeen.”

He approached the hearth to stand beside her. “That’s what you meant when you said you grew up together. Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop...”

“My mother died when I was four. Her family had never accepted their marriage, so my parents had moved in with my dad’s father, supposedly just until Dad could finish high school. Grandad was the one who started O’Halloran Shipping. When he passed away—I was six, I think—the business was almost bankrupt. My father turned it around.”

“More than that. What kind of price did you pay?”

“Me?” Paige was startled. No one had ever questioned what she had given up through the years.

“A young father, a growing business demanding every minute of his time. Did you pass from one baby-sitter to another, one housekeeper to another?”

“I grew up at my father’s feet. The first few years, whenever I wasn’t in school, I was at the office, or following him to the docks, or traveling with him to sign deals. We made an apartment out of some office space, then as the business boomed we bought a house. I worked for the firm in various capacities until I went off to college. He came home for a few hours’ sleep each night.”

“Sounds like he didn’t have a social life.”

“He didn’t. He loved my mother beyond belief. Beyond sensibility, even. He still worships her memory.” One I will never live up to.

“Are you like your mother?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I have little memory of her, mostly things my father told me. I don’t think I look like her, not from what Dad says, anyway.”

“Don’t you know what she looked like?”

“No. In a fit of rage shortly after her death he destroyed her pictures.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you ask?”

She shook her head briefly, sharply. She was tired and on edge, uncomfortable with the emotions surfacing. If she looked at Rye right now, she’d see sympathy. She didn’t want sympathy.

“Tell me how you met my father,” she said, lifting her coffee again.

His hesitation was brief and considering. “Patrick and I met when he and a few competitors discovered consistently short shipments on certain routes. I was hired to find the source.”

“But how did my father know to call you?”

He lifted a shoulder in a brief shrug. “There is a labyrinth of information that filters among industrialists. They guard their contacts, yet they also share, especially regarding security. What affects one company often affects another.”

“Keeping a lid on the information flow also keeps your identity a secret,” Paige said. “Without anonymity you couldn’t function as well.”

Rye nodded. A jolt of awareness struck him, fascination with the way her mind worked. She cut through layers with knife-edged logic, and the revelation staggered him physically—a twist he could live without.

More in his favor, though, she wasn’t a vulnerable woman. She was strong and in control, probably not as much in need of his protection as Patrick believed. It was important that she stay strong. If she showed one bit of weakness, his own vulnerability could surface. And that he needed to avoid at all costs.

“Listen, if you want to do some work, I’ve got calls to make,” he said.

She drained her coffee cup and returned it to the lace-covered table. “How soon can Lloyd pick up a printer for me?”

“He’ll call when he wakes up. Whatever you need, just tell him.”

She picked up her computer pack and set it on the table beside the remnants of their breakfast. “What’s the story on Lloyd? Is he an employee or what?”

“Or what.”

She turned around. “Meaning?”

“I leave the telling of that story to Lloyd, if he so chooses. He’s not an employee, but he helps me out sometimes.”

“Is the limousine his or yours?”

“It’s rented. Why?”

“The windows are tinted. We would be safe inside, wouldn’t we? I can’t stand the thought of being cooped up here.”

Ending the conversation with a “We’ll see,” he picked up the telephone, leaving her to her own devices as he began a series of calls that required decoding to be fully understood. He spoke in the jargon of his business, words sprinkled with numbers, letters and abbreviations. He filled the yellow pad before him with page after page of notes. Part of her stayed tuned in to him because she admired the way he dealt with the business first then took a minute for the social niceties, remembering to ask about family members, health statuses, even special occasions.

He had never had a phone conversation like that with her. Resentment burrowed into her and built. What was she? Less than a human being to be treated as cavalierly as he had these last years? Why had she deserved less consideration than any other client?

When he made probably the tenth call in two hours, his voice changed. Softened. Took on a note of tenderness.

“Hi... I’m doin’ great. How are you?... I’ve missed you, too. Are you feeling okay?... I’d be with you if I could, you know that... How’s our little one?”

Our little one? The pencil in Paige’s hands snapped. So, he has someone special in his life. A wife? Perhaps even a child? So what? And why does that surprise me? she thought, disgusted with herself. He’s intelligent and attractive and successful, and he’s proving right now that he can be tender. A lot of women probably like a macho superstud. Not me, though.

So why are you so disappointed? she asked herself. Because a part of me—a tiny, almost insignificant part—wishes a man like that would be interested in me. There! She’d said it. A moment of honesty. She’d dealt with it; now she could relegate it to the strongbox of lost dreams she kept locked in her head.

Thoughts of her mother escaped as she tried to close the lid. A perfect woman, according to her father. The perfect woman. Soft-spoken and soothing, a paragon of femininity. Paige had tried to emulate what she knew of her. Only Rye had broken through the wall of control she’d cultivated.

If she had learned nothing else from her debacle with Joey Falcon, she had figured out that she just wasn’t herself right now. She had been feeling more than restlessness, more than a mild desire for something to happen. For the last year, she’d felt an urgent tug toward something unknown, a yearning to discover passion, not only physically but spiritually. She wanted to break out. But to what? How do you stop continually strolling down garden paths if no one ever invites you on a marathon?

You sign up, she admonished herself. She knew she had to take charge of her own destiny. She just didn’t quite know how to do it, especially when she was being reminded by her father and Rye that she was powerless at the moment. Follow orders; we’ll take care of you.

And she didn’t recognize the person inside of her who just wanted to be taken care of.

Rye hung up the phone and stretched hugely. A glance at his watch confirmed what his stomach announced—that it was time for lunch. His gaze settled on Paige as she hunched over the too-high table her laptop sat on. She shifted her shoulders and rolled her head, easing unseen tension. Or was it really so unseen? As little as he had observed her, he was already able to pick up on her moods.

She would undoubtedly deny she had moods, of course, but he’d already seen several. Of them all, he most liked the playfulness he’d seen when she’d commented on his socks last night. He liked her belligerent side pretty well, too. Both made him laugh. He scrutinized her a little longer, pushed himself up from the couch and moved behind her.

When he settled his hands on her shoulders, she nearly jumped out of her seat.

“Don’t sneak up on me,” she ordered as she tugged herself forward.

He pushed his thumbs into the knotted muscle at the base of her neck and smiled at the involuntary groan he drew from her. “Should I stop?” he asked.

“No.”

He grinned, deepening the massage, adding his fingers and palms. Her fragility startled him, making him ease the pressure. Her head drooped forward. “Hang tight a sec,” he said. He swept up a pillow, instructing her to stand. Spinning the chair around, he laid the pillow over the chair back.

“Sit backward,” he said. “Lay your head on the pillow.”

She eyed her skirt, then the chair. Cautiously, she straddled the seat, but for every inch she lowered her body, her skirt raised an inch. She started to back off. “I don’t think—”

“Harry, I’ve seen my share of female leg. It won’t bother me.”

“But—”

“Trust me.”